


The First Hand

by ariel2me



Series: Inspired by Fire & Blood [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 20:45:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16668004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: "The King's Hand should have a hand. I will not have men speaking of the King's Stump." (Fire & Blood)Orys Baratheon asking to be relieved of his duties as the King’s Hand.





	The First Hand

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn’t resist after reading that excerpt in The Hollywood Reporter!
> 
> If you have a prompt inspired by Fire & Blood you’d like me to do, let me know in the comment section of this fic. I can’t promise that I will be able to fill your prompt, but I will try my best <3

* * *

  _His first [Hand] had been Lord Orys Baratheon, his bastard half-brother and companion of his youth, but Lord Orys was taken captive during the Dornish War and suffered the loss of his sword hand. When ransomed back, his lordship asked the king to be relieved of his duties. "The King's Hand should have a hand," he said. "I will not have men speaking of the King's Stump." ([excerpt from Fire & Blood](https://www.hollywoodreporter.com/live-feed/game-thrones-george-rr-martins-fire-blood-book-excerpt-1160897))_

* * *

 

This time, the chopped hands were not returned in a box. This time, the chopped hands were not returned at all. The Widow-lover had a very different way of sending a message than Argilac the Arrogant.  

 _These are the only hands your bastard shall have of me,_ the Storm King had written to Aegon Targaryen, in a letter accompanying the box carved with prancing stags which contained the hands of the envoy Aegon had sent to treat with Argilac. The envoy himself had perished at Storm’s End after being relieved of  _both_  his hands.

 _Ask your handless Hand what would happen the next time you send another army to conquer Dorne,_ Lord Wyl had written to Aegon Targaryen, in a letter accompanying the return of the ransomed hostages, all returning alive, albeit lacking their sword hands.  

*

Rotting hands looked alike under the blinding glare of the sun. Rotting hands looked alike under the shadow of the moonlight. Rotting hands looked alike under the glint of stars and constellations in the night sky.

*

They dangled, dangled like strings of onions. The hands were lined up in a row in the courtyard of Lord Wyl’s castle, and try as he might, Orys could not determine which one belonged to him.  _Used_  to belong to him. It belonged to him no more, of course.

How could this be? How could he fail to recognize what had been an integral part of himself, what had been the primarypart of his existence thus far? He  _raged_ at his own impotence almost as much as he raged against the man who had robbed him and his men of their sword hands.

 _I cannot give you Blackfyre or Dark Sister, but with this sword, I hope and trust that you will grow to be your brother’s greatest champion and defender_ , his father had said, when he presented Orys with his first real sword.  

 _My shield, my stalwart, my strong right hand,_ Aegon had proclaimed loudly at the mouth of Blackwater Rush.  _My beloved brother_ , he had added, in a whisper meant only for Orys’ ear.

A strong right hand without a right hand. Oh, who was he kidding? He was strong no more. Not in the eyes of the world, and certainly not in the eyes of Orys Baratheon himself.  

*

The pain was a welcome distraction. He rode it like a stallion, trying to escape to a world where he had not been unmanned, stubbornly refusing the dreamwine and the milk of the poppy offered by Aegon’s various maesters. He was capable of  _this_  still, at least, he thought; capable still of enduring more pain than most men could even imagine.

The itching, however, the itching not on the stump but on the phantom limb that existed no longer, drove him to curse-filled distraction. The fingers of his left hand, his only remaining hand, crawled desperately through the air, trying to scratch an itch that could never be scratched away.

*

 _When you are well again,_  Aegon said, over and over again, every time he visited Orys in his sickbed.  _When you are well again, we will make new plans about what to do regarding Dorne._   _When you are well again, you could resume your duties as my Hand. I will have you close to me in Aegonfort from this point on. We are building a unified kingdom, and there is a lot to plan and even more to do, and you will be by my side every step of the way._

Aegon always said ‘ _when_ ,’ never ‘ _if_.’ His steadfast and unwavering confidence was not something Orys could share.  

 _Three years I was gone, and you did not appoint anyone else as your Hand during that time?_ Orys had asked, during one of these visits.  

 _How could I? My Hand was still alive in Dorne. How could I even consider replacing him with another man?_  Aegon had replied.

Alive, but not living, thought Orys, though he did not share this thought with his half-brother. Aegon would not understand, he believed. Love, or even respect, was not a guarantee of understanding.

*

The master of laws and the master of coin both thought that they were more than capable of being Aegon’s Hand. Triston Massey and Crispian Celtigar were not the kind of men bold enough or reckless enough to proclaim this out loud with their own tongues, so other tongues did the whispering and the rumor-mongering for them. Other tongues speculated that perhaps Lord Orys had lost more than just his sword hand in Dorne. Other tongues made cruel japes about a new position in the king’s council to replace the King’s Hand, a position called the King’s Stump.

Other tongues murmured darkly,  _If Lord Orys is not his bastard half-brother, the king would have replaced him as Hand long before now. Nepotism and favoritism run rampant in this Targaryen king's court._

*

“I wish to return to Storm’s End.”

“Of course. I understand completely. You would like to be reunited with your lady wife and your son, after your long absence. The boy was barely a toddler when you saw him last. He is now a robust and hearty lad, I am told. You will be proud of him, Orys. Take as long as you like in Storm’s End, before returning here.”

“I wish to  _remain_  in Storm’s End.”

“The King’s Hand should be by the king’s side.”

“The King’s Hand should have a hand. I will not have men speaking of the King’s Stump. I will not have men insulting and diminishing your reign because of what I am now. I am asking to be relieved of my duties as your Hand, Your Grace.”

“Those men will be punished, as a warning to others. You will hear no more talk of the King’s Stump, brother. I promise you that.”

“Men could still think in their hearts and minds what they would not dare say aloud with their tongues.”

“What they think –“

“What they think is equally as important as what they say and do, if you wish to govern a realm. You are the one who have always believed this, Aegon. Would you ignore your own beliefs and principles now, for the sake of … what, exactly? Guilt? For the sake of your guilt because I lost my sword hand in service to you? If that is the case, then I release you from it, I release you from any obligation deriving from guilt.”

“It has nothing to do with guilt. I need you, Orys. I need you by my side.”

“You need a strong Hand whose loyalty is undoubted, yet who is not afraid to question your decision should the need ever arises. Not Lord Celtigar, and certainly not Lord Massey. I have a few names you should consider.”  


End file.
